The Chase
by MadRabbit
Summary: Because Smoker needs to be appreciated in a non-romantic fashion.  5: Changing Guard  - The next day, Smoker cut off the ponytail and went to sign up.  Last one-shot.
1. The Reason

**I swear to you now, this is not going to be Subtlety all over again. It is going to be a short collection of Stuff About Smoker, musings on the man and how generally badawesome he is, without any pairings or even hints of them. Because he deserves it.

* * *

**

In Loguetown, the air always smelled of salt. It was a seaport town, shoving up next to the ocean, so the tangy scent washed off the waves had soaked into brick and wood and pavement. But Smoker remembered the smell of salt because of the dried pork sold to mariners on the street where he lived. The place could have been worse; they were nowhere near the high-rise areas, but neither was the house on the outskirts of the city. Even so, crime was bad. _Bad _bad.

He was not a marine from birth by any means, and for years they entered his life only as _the enemy_. The laws of Loguetown's streets had nothing to do with those instated by the town's caretakers, most of whom stayed out of crime's way more and more after the pirate king's execution. Maybe their precious government masters had intended it to be the other way around, but the sudden influx of pirates and any other sailors on their way to the Grand Line was both frightening and infuriating.

The main streets were nice enough, paved with pale stone, with respectable store-fronts and bars lining them. The further away one walked, however, the less pleasant your quarters-and the people living nearby-became.

Here, it was the streets and you. Mother was tough, but her crippled leg kept her out of most respectable jobs. So Smoker didn't go to school—at least, no one taught him how to read, write, or do math. He learned how to steal, and he knew how to pick his fights wisely, though he rarely did. The only arithmetic that was helpful in Loguetown was how one wrong word could multiply your bruises.

Yeah, those were the important lessons. Fighting other kids, sometimes teenagers several feet taller than he was, and snatching a meal or two when cash was tight.

Things changed a bit when he turned twelve. Sure, there was the execution of the Pirate King—_broad white smile, shadows of stubble, gaudy scarlet coat (ragged with years of wearing)_—but it was that speech that did it. The cheer that went up after he finished slammed into Smoker like a wall, and suddenly it was all confusion and screaming. Milling people trampled his feet, and an elbow left him with an impressive shiner the next day. But it wasn't the pain or the bruising or even the wild, fierce, involuntary awe that Gold Roger's words invoked. It was the Great Age that followed. And there was nothing he could do to stop it as it swallowed his life whole.

Pirates streamed into Loguetown, frenzied for a chance at the Grand Line, brutally inconsiderate of the citizens. The local force of marines began to dwindle rapidly as older, more experienced officers caught onto the trend and requested transfers. They were replaced by raw idiots with no skills to speak of.

The issue only came home to Smoker one muggy night in the summer of his thirteenth year, as he wandered home after an especially tough confrontation with Pickpocket Timothy. One ankle was badly twisted, dragging over the cobbles with every step. The moon was yellow that night, the sooty streetlamps flickering erratic and orange.

The first broken door he saw was Mister Shiina's—the dried pork salesman. Then Knots, the ropemaker's place, and Mrs. Birdy's house, where some kids learned spelling for five beri a week, and he was running now, teeth bared to the gums with pain. And he saw the empty black rectangle where his house's door had once been, and the splintered wood.

It was the work of a moment to make sure Mother was fine, hiding in a closet upstairs with a hefty wooden axe handle. But everything else…food, trinkets, the little money they had…all gone.

It's not for a thirteen-year-old to handle the responsibility and the fury of a man whose family has been wronged, but there was no one else to do so, and so it fell on Smoker to take care of his home. He ran as far as he could towards the marine base, his ankle crackling and throbbing as his heels pounded the street. When the joint finally gave up and collapsed in excruciating pain, he hauled himself into a standing position once more with scuffed hands. On one foot, hands shifting over the walls of passing buildings, he hop-skipped doggedly to his only chance of revenge.

_Pirates._

That was when he truly began to hate them.

In his pain, he almost passed by the four marines lounging around a bar's outdoor tables, tossing a purple ball back and forth. As Smoker drew closer, the ball began to look more like some odd fruit, curlicues spiraling over its surface.

"Hey!"

His voice hadn't broken yet, and was shaky from the agony of his injured ankle, but there must have been some authority in it that told the marines he was talking to them.

"What, kid?"

Bridling at the man's condescending voice, Smoker glared fiercely at all four of them as he spoke. "Pirates…there're pirates runnin' loose here, you know that? You know they took all we got? Get up'n help, bastards!"

He could have been more polite. But there was something about their laughing faces and the way they acted like there was nothing wrong…

"Run off and don't bother us, brat," said one of them, sneering as he tossed the weird fruit from hand to hand. "We've got more important things to do, okay? Whatever's happened, it can't be that horrible. I mean, we're pretty good about keeping pirates out."  
He would have attacked them right then, shown them a little bit of Loguetown's special brand of down-and-dirty fighting, but his ankle screamed for a rest, and the fragility of even standing told him he couldn't win.

"So," said one of them, turning back to the rest as though nothing had happened, "how much d'you think Captain February'll pay for this thing?"

The rest of them guffawed. Smoker, who had been about to storm away in disgust, paused now in curiosity. He had no money. He needed money. They were paid men; they didn't need any extra. He waited for the estimate.

"Five, ten thousand beri," said one, confident in his appraisal of the fruit. "Tops."

"For a Devil Fruit? More! _Way _more!"

Only four words of this exchange registered in Smoker's ears: _ten thousand _and _Devil Fruit_. He spun on one foot, managing to get momentum behind the movement, and launched himself at the marine holding the fruit. He'd never seen one before, but this looked about outlandish enough to give someone special powers. As soon as he'd freed it from the startled man's grip, he was off again. They followed, of course, once they'd lost the initial shock, but this was _his _home turf. They stood no chance, even with Smoker's hurt foot in their favor.

As he began to limp home, the plan in the boy's head was clear—sell the fruit, make money, make sure there's food for another half a year. By the time he reached his house, however, the idea had changed drastically. There was an opportunity here, and not taking it was inexcusable.

He didn't stop to consider it; hesitation was useless here. One large bite was enough, as the thing tasted absolutely horrible. Smoker gagged, grimaced, and swallowed. The ruined Devil Fruit went into the trash.

The plan had changed: Take the powers of the devil. Rule the streets. Show the marines what justice is.

The rules had changed.

_1. I have the power now._

_2. No mercy for pirates.

* * *

_** I would really like to believe that before he joined the marines, Smoker was the vigilante ruler of Loguetown's streets. I don't know whether he actually grew up there, but Y St. Ace has fixed that image in my head and I really can't get rid of it.  
**


	2. Fever

**I had actually intended to write only one story, but as I was brainstorming on a piece of paper, the list of things I wanted to include grew longer and longer, and I knew by the end of the night that I would have to either turn it into one long story or write a series of oneshots. I'd never done the latter, and it sounded easier. **

**This is one of the things on the list...**

**(Beware of mild language.)  
**

**

* * *

**There are a lot of things that Smoker hates. He's just that kind of man. He is rarely happy unless he's chasing pirates—there's that thrill, that animal instinct for the hunt. That may be the one thing he truly loves; it's the cobbles under his boots, the adrenaline rush searing in his chest, the blood roaring in his ears like surf on a shore.

But the things he hates…yes, they are many. Pirates and crime, corrupt marines and stupid orders, and not getting his coffee in the morning. But one of the things highest on his blacklist, right above people screwing with his crew, is being helpless. Harmless. Superfluous. Oh, it grates at him. He avoids it if he can, and no one has disabled him in battle for years now.

But there was that one night…

He doesn't remember the date. He was sick, feverish as _hell_, hallucinating and burning as he swayed and staggered in the direction of the doctor's rooms.

He collapsed outside the door.

After that, there were delirious visions, things that didn't bear mentioning and indescribable horrors that he later forgot. There was blackness, and then the freezing burn of ice on his searing hot skin.

Smoker roared with the pain of it, the unbearable contrast, but when he tried to move, he found all his limbs kitten-weak and numb. It wasn't the cold—he wouldn't have let something like that stop him. It was…

"We put you in an ice bath, Captain," said the doctor's weary voice. "Clothes'n all, of course." Smoker, sweat shining on his scarlet face, barely managed to roll his head to the left for a good look at the man. Shadowed, sullen eyes stared back, unimpressed by Smoker's fearsome expression.

"_Get…me…out…"_

"Then your monster fever would kill you."

"_Damn…you…"_

"Whatever you say." The doctor was always ill and tired, pale-faced and stubbly. If Smoker had been the kind of person to comment on the irony of a sick doctor, he would have. As it was, he'd just accepted things for the way they were; it didn't concern him.

This, on the other hand, did. You couldn't just dump someone who'd eaten a Devil Fruit in a bath—_and it _burned_, cold and hot at once. _Yes, there was the weakness, and yes, it was humiliating, but the thing that normal people didn't understand, would never understand unless they took a bite themselves, was the fear.

It was paralyzing. It was disgustingly, inexorably unstoppable. It came with the package.

Smoker hated it.

Something he knows about the world, another thing he hates: pirates have terrible timing. Pirates have the _worst _timing in the world. They will always, _always _turn up when they were least needed.

They turned up then.

Their first inkling that something was wrong on deck was the distinct chiming noise of Lieutenant Sweetheart's Bell-bell abilities at work (_a Marine who really leaves the enemies' heads ringing, hah, oh damn I'm still delirious_).

"Hm," said the doctor, and stood, taking his pistols from where they lay on the floor and moving ponderously towards the door.

"_Hey…!"_

"Stay put, Captain. It's for your health."

"_Bastard…come…ba…"_

The world collapsed inwards and bats flew out of the walls. Smoker blinked, sweat trickling into his eyes, and everything righted itself. Above his head, the chaos of battle was a faint rustle, echoing down through the resonant wood of the ship's inner framework. He tried to raise his arms, struggled to shift the muscles of his back, fought and gasped and cursed and _could not move. _Occasionally, the hallucinations would start again, but as the fiery iciness seeped into his body, it was as though the fever had begun to pulse out of his body.

Heightened lucidity did nothing for his fury or that awful, disgusting fear. Smoker sulked in his anger and boxed it in, straining for any hint at the tide of the combat above. There was no doubt that his men would win—that was a given—but as captain, there was that basic need to fight, chase, and generally be involved. It was his responsibility to prevent as many casualties as was within his power, and besides that…

…well, he just had to be there. He was their captain, and whether they needed him there or not, that was his place.

Smoker gritted his teeth against the cold and pain, wishing fervently for nicotine. The least the doctor could have done was given him a cigar or two (or three). For a medic, the man had absolutely no sense of decency.

_Faint sound of crashing, a thud, footsteps. _Something told him this wasn't one of his men; Smoker strained at the inertia of submersion, one last desperate effort to free himself.

It didn't work. The infirmary door's handle twitched, clicked, and then clattered to the floor as a warhammer splintered through the wood. The pirate, dressed all in red and carrying a knife in one hand and the hammer in his other, instantly spotted Smoker, fully clothed in the broad metal washtub of ice.

The knife twitched—his arm was bleeding heavily, flesh opened wide near the shoulder. Smoker felt a moment's fierce pride in his men before the imminent threat of death came limping towards him, leering unpleasantly. The Marine captain scowled, staring, waiting for the outcome, one way or the—

_BANG_

A hole opened in the pirate's forehead, followed a moment later by a thick line of blood, which spattered the already stained infirmary floor. Then the corpse crumpled ungracefully to the ground, and the doctor was visible, pistol still raised. He looked from the dead man to Smoker, then back again.

Then he said, "You look better."

"_Hnnnnn," _said Smoker. Words were having difficulty clawing their way out of his throat, but his eyes conveyed what his mouth couldn't.

"You want to fight. Are you suicidal?"

Glare.

"You could die."

Curled lip, snarl.

"I'm tired of arguing," said the doctor, and shoved heavily at the edge of the tub with one foot. It toppled onto one side, sending ice water spreading over the wooden floorboards. Smoker's forehead smacked into floor, his body left awkwardly twisted as it had fallen, his limbs still regaining feeling…

…But the fear was gone. His fingers twitched, his legs flexed…smoke wisped from his shoulders, and though the cigars in his jacket holsters were soaked (to his mounting wrath), the doctor always had a cheap cardboard box of self-rolls by his office.

Better than nothing.

The White Chase went to kick ass.

Of course the victory that night was theirs, and of course Smoker managed to recover from the mysterious illness in record time, but the point still stands, and always will until the day he dies.

Smoker hates to be helpless.

* * *

**I should probably be titling these so that they act as separate stories... Oh, well. **

**My art teacher once had a fever this high, complete with hallucinations. Devil Fruit user in an ice bath! I just had to include it. Realistically, of course, one probably wouldn't recover that fast, and even if they did, they would probably be incapacitated for quite a while afterward.**

**Well, Smoker is special. Smoker is a superbeast. Smoker doesn't care about debilitating, life-threatening fevers! So there!  
**

**You know something? I have the best reviewers _ever. _It's great to have you.**

**REPLIES**

**Aoihand: Thanks! Nrrr, yes, Smoker/Ace/Anything male and sexy is disturbingly and rampantly popular. This is silly, because, as you say, he "gets shit done". ;) He has no time for romance! There is Justice to be meted out!**

**Amethyst Turtle: You...there...what...Amethyst... _I am not worthy_. I'm still trying to get over Aoihand! Seriously! XD **

***ahem* That done with (don't be creeped out), glad you like it! Some days it feels like my writing always turns out with a flashback feel to it, but at least it worked for that one. Of course, he'll join the Marines eventually-in my fantasy-world Loguetown, anyway-but yes, I feel he would be much happier as an independent agent. Every time I see him, I have these aneurysms of awesome overload...**

**Liashi, FNA Sora: Ah, thank you! I have a penchant for trying to work out what parts of characters' lives caused their personalities to develop the way they did. I figure he lived in Loguetown because he saw the execution as a 12-year-old, and after that, the place would have been a bottleneck of pirates heading for the Grand Line...not a nurturing environment. (Theory rant...)**

** So yeah. :D I'm sure there are other fics like this out there somewhere...maybe someone'll notice this one and think, _Hey, he _does _need more attention! _...That's what I hope, anyway. Probably in vain. **

**MissDilemma: Thanks! Yeah, he RAWX.**

**Kiarra-Chan: :D Thanks! I have to say, regardless of whether his past was anything like this, I _really really really _want some canon backstory for Smoker. And I'm glad you want to hear more, because I'd be very much obliged to write more. ;) Enjoy! (I hope.)**

**Zexion's Somebody: Thanks, you're welcome, and yes, we really do need more Smoker. (And more cowbell, haha...ha...heh... Just pretend that isn't there...) **

**penniless1: ...Sure! XD You make me happy. Hopefully length and plausibility will hold up throughout however many chapters end up here. On another note, that does makes sense, now you mention it...it would explain part of why his pirate-catching methods are so reliable. Elsewhere, of course, it's just his natural badassery. ;D**

**Phalanx: Thanks! Yeah, the idea is he hasn't quite dropped his street punk ways since becoming a Marine-thus the insubordination and court martials and whatnot. XD  
**


	3. Cold Streets

**Subtlety ain't dead yet! It's just resting while I try to survive Junior year. But the new chapter is in progress now. This has actually been sitting around for a couple of months now, so I thought I'd finish it up so I could focus on other things for a while. Enjoy a good dose of Smoker-ness! Next chapter I think I'll focus on adult Smoker more, because he is hotter and more canon than this Smoker. Musings done with, I have to read seven chapters of Huck Finn and go to bed.**

**

* * *

**The streets of Loguetown are cold.

Mother's been dead of the flu for months now, so he's a free agent, a bastard punk with nowhere to go but forward. And the streets are cold. It's wintering up now, and the salty air is crisp with the oncoming ice. This hasn't discouraged the pirates—no, they've infested the streets even more thoroughly in the absence of civilians walking them. Smoker stays out of their way.

Yeah, that's right! Got a problem with that? He _stays away from them_. He's waiting, and Smoker hates waiting, hates it with every fiber of his being. But he doesn't quite have it mastered yet, this new and eerily appropriate Devil Fruit. He's still too weak, and he wants the strength to fight as well as defend. Loguetown is a passive place now; it's degenerated into meek anxiety in the face of an unrelenting flow of criminals.

And the Marines…they do _nothing_. It drives him absolutely insane to just sit and watch, but until he's really got the hang of these strange powers, he can't stand to risk it. Sometimes, though, when he's really angry, he can see out of the corners of his eyes little wisps of white smoke sifting off of him.

For the first few weeks, whenever he tries disintegrating into smoke, he can't move—he just hangs there in the air, amorphous and frustrated. Smoke doesn't have muscles; he can't figure out how to make himself move in logia form.

Oh, yeah, it's a Logia type. He "borrowed" an encyclopedia from old man Simmings down the road, and had to make sure several times that the picture he'd found was actually _his _Devil Fruit. Those Marines were dead wrong about the cost. He's never seen so many zeroes on a number in his life.

But regardless of value, he still can't figure out to work it. Strangely enough, the most help he gets is from the ancient, pipe-toting vagrant woman who teaches him how to smoke properly. This is also hard at first—caging the coughs back, getting used to the feeling of smoke pouring down his throat. But eventually he manages, learning how to blow smoke rings at fourteen.

There's a huge irony in it: Smoker the smoker, with the Plume-plume fruit. Oh, he doesn't miss it. But Smoker's knows nothing of literature, and he really couldn't care less about coincidences. He doesn't like them, almost hates them. Everything happens for a reason. He's been looking at connections since he was twelve, watching the Pirate King's execution.

Well, whatever his issues with the idea, the smoking actually helps. Once he's taught his lungs and throat how to push and pull smoke, he can let the feeling spread into his cloudy white dissembled body. It's just like finding the right way to breathe.

At fourteen, he's ready. It's only taken two years, two years waiting in the maddeningly overrun streets of his dirty, loved-hated hometown. Now he's still young, but getting older, and in his head he's always been a man. And he's ready.

This is the teenage vigilante on Loguetown's cold streets. And his first target is not an easy one, because he is tired of waiting and watching and doing nothing. This is no small-fry pirate—he's a big bastard of a mercenary, wandering without his crew in search of entertainment.

"Entertainment" in this case means some poor sot without enough money to pay himself out of a beating. Smoker can hear the bones breaking three blocks away, and he knows everyone else can too; all those men and women, trembling in their houses and listening, hoping the pirates won't come after them next.

He will be the courage Loguetown doesn't have.

"_Apologize, you little bastard!"_

Silence. Smoker walks faster; his calves ache, his heart throbs.

"…_I…forgive me—"_

"_For _what_? You don't have enough…?"_

"_Forgive me…I didn't…my money wasn't—"_

THUD—_crunch_—

"_Damn right!"_

He rounds the corner, into the stinking sidestreet air thick with the stench of blood and rotting food. There is a man bleeding on the ground; a broken nose, multiple bruises, and probably a broken rib or two, the way he's curled up.

Smoker isn't afraid; his knees are shaking, but this is no betrayal of inner anxiety. He is beyond fear. He is invincible.

"_Mugging is a crime," _he says, in a voice so quiet they shouldn't have heard it. But it has that diamond edge to it that he's used for fourteen years to assert his authority on the killing streets of Loguetown. So they're listening.

"What was that?" One of them is laughing, because they don't understand yet, what they've done and what the results will be.

"Mugging is a crime, whoresson," says Smoker, and snaps a rude hand gesture at the criminal. "Get out of my backyard."

He's fourteen.

He's fourteen, some fourteen-year-old orphan. All sinew and muscle and hard bones, but he's fourteen, too young to be a threat, and he's acting like one.

_Take him down a peg, boys._

Teach him a lesson.

The first punch goes straight through him.

"Mugging is a crime," he repeats, in a voice like steel, and with a quick exhale he flows up like white water and slams one bone-edged fist into the pirate's nose.

"Theft is a crime." He knees the second one in the chin, hears the third one behind him, breathing like a wild animal.

"Rape is a crime." The third one seems tougher, but he's shorter, younger. Smoker rematerializes—he wants to show them just what they're up against. He's not just a Devil Fruit freak.

"_Murder _is a crime." The man has a knife, angles it straight for Smoker's throat, but Smoker's faster and it just grazes his arm as he tackles the kid to the ground. He hears the _crack_, sees a few teeth go skittering away into the blackness. He hauls at the pirate's coat until the pirate's on his back, looking up at Smoker, fighting. Knuckles batter his face, but it's too late—even with his head ringing, he can still make his fists work, and he only stops punching when he feels the blood sticking to his hands.

This is the beginning, and it will continue.

When the three pirates wake, they find themselves in the hospitable care of the Loguetown Marines, who haven't arrested a single pirate for an entire year. Now someone's doing their work for them…

"_Failure to uphold the law…is a crime."_

_

* * *

_**Holy cow, what did cold streets have to do with any of that but the first line? Disappointing! **

** Also on the to-do-list storywise, a follow-up to _Denial, Rage, Rice Crackers, Acceptance_ (also fondly referred to as simply "Rice Crackers"). It's been stewing in a corner of my brain for a while now, I think. Anyway. Huck Finn. **

**REVIEW REPLIES**

**It's too late at night for this...ugh...**

**Aoi24: I live to serve. :D You make me happy-Smoker can be very difficult to balance between Chuck-Norris-Marine-Guy and mortal man. **

**sventastic: SMOKER _IS _KICKASS! No need to apologize whatsoever. XD Thanks, man (or woman, depending). Great to know you're enjoying these-hopefully I'll be able to churn out more faster from now on.**

**Liashi, FNA Sora: Thanks! I've dropped that doctor into several other Smoker stories, so I thought it only fitting to include him again here; I take way too much pleasure in making up random Marines...including Lieutenant Sweetheart (another regular of mine). I suppose we'll see if he turns up again...? To be honest, I'm pretty curious too. XD**

**Phalanx: LOL Yeah, Smoker would be pretty ticked to find all his stuff ruined afterwards! Guess who's paying for all those new cigars...**

**MissDilemma: I have too many commitment issues to try a 30-challenge, heheh... Glad it appeals! (Doesn't everyone have Smoker fever? I mean, really. The man is just too sexy.)**

**Pom Rania: Thanks! **

**SniperKingSogeking0341: Ah, thank you! Good to hear. :) It would all be for naught if Smoker was totally OOC.**

**Lucky Marie: THANK YOU! ^_^  
**


	4. Terriers and Rats

**Back again! Hoping to post another part of Subtlety soon, but in the meantime, here's this! More Smoker badassery. There's a slight irony in that I wrote this before reading the official VIZ publication of Volume 19, because they've translated one of Crocodile's comments about Smoker as "You're a mad dog, as they say", or something. I was amused. **

* * *

Smoker considers himself a level-headed man; he is rational, suspicious, and makes logical conclusions. His evidence is always solid. He arrests criminals and rewards good performance, albeit sparingly.

But this…

(Irrational chaos, pirates and marines like brawlers in a bar, the fury tangible in the air.)

This is Smoker, Marineford crumbling around him, ten pirates trying to mob him, and there is no time to check his extensive memory for their crimes and bounties; there is only the frenzy and blood and the feeling of bones breaking. Instinct and reflex are his best hope here, allowing the heat to overtake him in favor of surviving.

(Go for the Devil Fruit User first, then deal with the axe-wielder, _then _you can let yourself go and they all vanish in white smoke—_all this in a second_.)

He is a _marine_.

_It is a dog. Smoker, his now-infamous head of gray hair concealed by a ratty old cap, watches with disgust and morbid fascination as it scrambles madly after rat after rat. It drools and hacks, whining with confusion—it can't pick one rat, and the vermin keep crossing paths, leaving the terrier confused and tripping over its own paws. _

_Men, some pirates, some citizens, and one marine with the gall to wear his uniform to an illegal underground game… They cheer, take bets, swear, sing drinking songs, all in one great, vulgar roar that almost engulfs the frenzied snapping of the dog. The light is orange, the air hazy. The smell of smoke and alcohol would be enough to send anyone else into a trance. Smoker doesn't know what's in those pipes, but it'll take more than a little smoke to send him over the edge like the men in this throng._

"_Get 'im! Get 'im! Two more, you hairy little bastard, and I'll—"_

"_Oi, no hands in the ring or you're out of the pot!"_

"_Don't you even try it!"_

_From his dark, inconspicuous corner, Smoker finds himself watching the sick sport all the way through._

As in most of his life, Smoker finds the brutal irony in the return of this vivid and unwanted memory, which is that—

-no, he's let his guard down. A spear passes through him, thankfully without any _haki_ reinforcement, but next time he might not be so lucky. Even so, he manages to spare a furious glance at the scaffold, where the tattered black shadow of Straw Hat's brother wavers above the heat of the battleground.

Explosions—he narrowly avoids a flaming body flying from the impact, and far above his eye catches the blue-white brilliance of Whitebeards First Division Commander clashing with some other Devil Fruit User. Then it vanishes and he's consumed by the rush and unstopping war.

The ground trembles under his feet—Whitebeard's tectonic wrath, rippling through the embattled ranks. _Damn _Sengoku… The man felt the need to bring the fury of the gods on all their heads, and for _what_?  
_"Shport!" the man says, his tongue fumbling the word around fresh, bloody gaps in his teeth. It is later; groans rise around Smoker as he interrogates his last victim. Despite his disgust, he is curious._

"_Just sport?" Smoker is cynical even in his youth, tugging a piece of loose skin from his torn knuckles with his teeth. "What about the gambling cash?"_

_The man actually _laughs_, though he has to be in a lot of pain by now. "Hlike I eher win! Shport...tha'ss it."_

_Smoker knocks the criminal unconscious, but the image of the dog sticks with him for a long time. And it returns to him when he finally gives in becomes a Marine._

Just as it comes to him now. Smoker knows he's sold his soul for this battle, because Marineford is the ring, the pirates are the rats, and Smoker…Smoker is just a terrier, snapping at tails.

For _sport_.

_Dammit._

* * *

**Short chapter! But I've always wanted to write something with Smoker comparing himself to a rat-chasing terrier. I know that sounds weird_, _but it was one of the ideas I wrote on my original piece of paper...what can I say?**

**Been thinking of adding chapter to this including an OC. Don't kill yourselves yet-it would mainly be an experiment in avoiding OC-shipping, Mary-Sues, and ****the like. Just a bit of a refresher for people who, like myself, are tired of reading predictable OC fics. But if I do get around to it, I give all of you complete leeway to give me honest feedback on how that actually works out. I'm curious, so bear with me if it comes to this.**

**Now, suggestion rant done with, let's move on to review replies. Have I mentioned recently how much I don't deserve you guys? You're great!**

**REVIEW REPLIES**

**GeckoMoriaShadowLord: Thanks a bunch, man! (Most people on here are female, but I just call people "man".) You flatter me! I've always wanted to portray a darker side of Loguetown, and Smoker beating it into shape.**

** Phalanx: Indeed, Subtlety has returned! Summer is good for me that way. Sadly, Lt. Sweetheart and the doctor both appeared in as-of-yet unpublished stories. Sweetheart was in a fic where Smoker ended up taking Crocodile to HQ instead of Hina, and spent his time in the brig tormenting Smoker's crew psychologically whenever they were on watch. I think I threw it away, actually... And the doctor was present in a re-write I did of some really bad fic when I was bored. Because posting such a thing would be cruel, I of course refrained from doing so. But if this goes on, they'll certainly turn up again.**

**Riah-chan: Yes, he's the Bruce Wayne of Loguetown! Or, as you say, Jason Todd. Not that I know who that is...you might have to enlighten me. XD**

**K.A. Productions: Thanks a bunch! :D Glad it's fulfilling its purpose. **

**Gentle Breezes: Well, I suppose it depends on your translation of awesome! If awesome meant "invincible world-crushing powers", then certainly there could be too much of it for Smoker. But the awesomeness of Smoker, as you say, is in his believability. He's flawed and has doubts, which makes him strangely even more epic than the Unbeatables of OP. Therefore there is no such thing as too much Smoker Awesome. But I digress. XD Hope you enjoyed this one, and to see some young Smoker in canon some day soon. **

**Aoi24: Frekkin' right we love him! Smoker the wild child...looks like I got across the feeling I was looking for! And of course Hina will appear, and Tashigi too, though I don't intend to go too deep with either relationship-at least not in a romantic sense. But I like the dynamics Smoker has with both of them, which gives me openings to explore different facets of his personality. So.**

**SniperKingSogeking0341: Gimme one of those "GO SMOKER" flags! I want one! (Oh, and thank you.) :D**

**Pom Rania: Where Smoker goes, pwnage follows. Thanks!**

**Guard-y nut: I think everyone has fallen in love with a less-than-main character at some point-worry not. I've done the same! But it's a pleasure to give people a chance to appreciate Smoker all over again. And Tashigi is awesome!**

**Airling42: Thanks so much! When I'm feeling down, I'm going to come back to this review and read it a few times over...it makes me feel like a beacon of hope. XD Smoker's "special-as-a-snowflake personality" is a heckuva lot of fun to write.**

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**Although, on a side note, switching between writing him and Mihawk (for Subtlety) can be really jarring, because Mihawk is such a gentleman and Smoker has all the subtlety of a sledgehammer. Anyway. Hope to post a new chapter here soon!  
**


	5. Changing Guard

**Last installment of The Chase! Thank you all for reading!**

**EDIT: Put the story right-way 'round after Ysaye's helpful review. I thought it was confusing anyway...  
**

* * *

When he turned sixteen, Smoker grew a ponytail.

The only other significant thing about turning sixteen was a changing of the guard in the Loguetown Marine base, and in fairness this was far more important than some vigilante kid's hairdo. But Smoker would always associate the two, and as for why that was, this is the story:

He never expected the new Marines to actually do their job. The rumors had been running for weeks, and for a savvy boy with his ear to the ground, it was easy to pick up on the news. Some Captain Benji was replacing Loguetown's would-be World Government caretaker. Perhaps the brass had finally gotten their asses in gear and decided to kick out the lazy bastard.

Either way, Smoker was pretty sure the new guy would just stay out of his way, just as Captain Haddocker had learned to; he didn't need any Marine interference in his business. And even if they'd actually been sincere, he hated the lot of them. Protectors of the people, _right_. He was more than enough for the job.

But they _didn't _stay out of his way.

A week after the reception for the new Marine captain, Smoker was on the tail of some rookie pirate in the back-alleys of his hometown. The idiot had no idea where he was going, and Smoker's mental map easily provided him with an idea of where he would emerge onto the main street. _Dead end, blocked off, that road's full of dead fish and guts, so if he turns right…_

He sat down at the intersection of Tipsy and Trafalgar, and waited.

And waited.

And waited some more.

Had there been a miscalculation? He went over the map again, checking each turning point and detour. Still, all signs pointed to these streets. Perhaps, Smoker thought angrily, the filthy pirate had decided to go through the putrid fish guts. In retrospect, he shouldn't have assumed pirates had a problem with that kind of thing.

Time to go looking for the—

-no, there was movement in the sideroad he'd been watching. Smoker half-stood, eyes narrowing as not one but three shapes emerged from the shadows. His first instinct was to attack, but something held him in check. Those weren't more pirates. In fact…

Smoker had bought steel-toed boots a year ago, and they made his footsteps satisfying loud as he strode furiously towards the two marines and their bloody prisoner. When he wanted stealth, he could always just fly as a cloud of smoke, but some occasions called for intimidation, and gods knew he wanted to intimidate these uppity Marines.

He didn't know their faces. That was unusual, because for the most part Smoker had been dealing with the same local marines for sixteen years. Something in their faces told him they weren't quite the same as the old guard, but at the moment he was too angry to care.

"That," he said, jerking his head in the pirate's direction, "was _mine_."

The Marines gave each other a significant look, which only served to fire up Smoker's temper further. He inhaled deeply and then expelled all the smoke in his lungs forcefully in their faces. Both men coughed and tried to wave the cloud into dissipation, but Smoker exerted one last pulse of control over it and let their eyes water for another five seconds.

Bastards.

"If you've got something to say," he ground out past his cigarette, "you better say it now."

One of them glared at him with narrow purple eyes and growled, "The Devil Fruit kid Haddocker told us about, huh? Understand this right now, boy: we're the law enforcement. This is our _job_."

Smoker could feel smoke wisping off of him in his anger, and he did nothing to contain it. So much the better if they got a little preview of what he could do. This was East Blue, so they'd probably never even seen a Devil Fruit user before.

They didn't look intimidated. One of them even sighed, and they hoisted the handcuffed pirate a bit higher on his feet. He groaned, and stumbled with them straight past Smoker. Smoker did nothing, as much as it would have pleased him to deck the guys then and there. This was their first and only chance, purely because he hadn't gotten a good idea of the new Marines yet. But that wouldn't be the case for much longer, and he sure as hell wasn't letting them get away with something like that again.

It was _on_.

It was almost like the Marines were _trying _to get in his way, pick off _his _prey. It would almost have been funny if it wasn't so damn annoying. Sure, there were a couple of criminal over the next week or so that Smoker got to before them, but more often than not the Marines were there first—new ones, all with that impassive arrogance.

The first time he tried to start a fight with them, they didn't respond at all like Captain Haddocker's men would have. They weren't as easily riled, and in fact it seemed like Smoker was the only one getting angry. He was on the verge of throwing the first punch when one of the Marines, a blonde woman with a square face and iron-gray eyes, spoke for the first time.

"Alright, Smoke-boy, _peace_. We'll take you to see the captain and you can argue it out with _him_. We don't have time for this, do we, Private?"

"No, Lieutenant Arshid, Ma'am!" barked the private.

"Good. Follow us, Smoke-boy."

Take it to the boss?

Not a bad idea.

"Don't bother," said Smoker shortly. "I know my way to the base better'n you do." And he could get there faster, too—a few springing steps launched him into the air as a stream of white smoke. Five minutes later, as the crow flies, he dropped into a three-point landing in the middle of the base yard. The first thing he registered was the distinctive sound of rifles being cocked.

…Well, they were on the ball. Too bad vigilance couldn't do anything for you if the guy you were aiming your gun at could turn into smoke at will.

"I'm here to talk to your boss," Smoker said loudly, glaring around at all of them. "I've got a bone to pick with you bastards."

"Aha!"

_Behind? _Smoker turned as slowly as possible, just to let to Marine captain know he wasn't intimidated. He wasn't entirely surprised to see that Benji didn't look very intimidated by him either—the man had to be close to seven feet tall, with a well-trimmed brown beard. There was gray hair at his temples, but Smoker was instantly wary of anyone with eyes that sharp.

"How many men cocked their guns when you turned up?"

"Thirty-two," said Smoker automatically, and then blinked, confused. Around him, a rustle of whispering passed through the watching Marines.

"Thirty-one," said Captain Benji, grinning with annoying approval. "But that's just because Ensign Locke carries two rifles at all times. We're still not sure how he manages, right, boys?"

Murmured assent. Smoker shot a glare at the nearest Marines, hoping they'd quiet down, but for the most part they just grinned back at him. The fire in his stomach flared with violent indignation.

"You know, Smoker, you're not bad." Smoker balked at being addressed so familiarly, but the man kept talking without letting him object. "For a kid, you've done a damn fine job of taking care of this rathole. But now it's ours to take care of. Take a break, find a girl—"

"I take care of Loguetown," Smoker ground out, eyes narrowed to furious gray slits. "The damn Marines never did _anything_ for us, not since Roger died. This is _my _place. Leave it to me."

"No."

"_Stay off my streets._"

"No. Kid, you've got talent. But you could have so much _more _if you joined the forces...you'd have to cut off the ponytail, of course. But imagine the information network you could have with the Marines. Subordinates to take care of your petty business and keep an eye on local criminals, tell you where they're going."

"Don't need it," said Smoker bluntly. He could feel his cigarette burning down at an unusual rate, and tried to calm his breath.

It didn't work.

"Sure you don't." Damn, he was condescending. Smoker wanted to break the guy's nose and have done with.

"You look like you'd like to smash my face in right now," said Benji, and started loosening his sleeves. "Alright, I'll humor you."

"The _hell_?" said Smoker with feeling.

"No Devil Fruit powers," said the old Marine, and let his embroidered white coat slide off his shoulders. It crumpled on the stone tiles, and all around Smoker and the captain, nervous subordinates shifted back to give them space. Smoker was outraged at first—after all, if this captain had been a criminal on the streets, the Plume-Plume Fruit would have been one of his resources.

But saying so would make it seem as though Smoker _needed _his Devil Fruit to beat this damn fool, so he nodded once—curtly—and settled into a solid stance. He was annoyed to discover how difficult it was to repress the instinct to turn into smoke; had he really been relying on the Fruit that much recently? Damn it…

"You box, kid?"

Smoker said nothing. He wasn't obligated to give answers and anyway, no street kid would ever tell an enemy anything about his fighting style. The answer was no, of course.

"Boxing" implied rules, some kind of organization, some _technique _learned for a sport. It certainly didn't include biting, kicking, clawing, scratching, elbowing, or dealing blows below the belt. All of which Smoker fully intended to use if necessary, because no one had named any specific constraints for the fight and therefore no one had any right to complain if he wasn't up to their standards.

Still, something told him to wait a bit longer before charging in. He didn't know anything about this new Marine yet, and who knew? Maybe the old man was a bit more competent than the old captain. He was certainly big, and those scars probably weren't for show. So he'd been in combat, but most likely he wasn't expecting much from a gray-haired punk from Loguetown.

Smoker liked it when people underestimated him. Not only was it a tactical advantage, but the looks on their faces after he'd kicked their asses was priceless.

…But he wasn't just standing there—he had his fists up, which meant he was at least expecting a fight. He didn't seem like the type to take the first offensive, though.

_He's waiting for me. He wants to size me up_, thought Smoker suddenly, and was instantly furious. He didn't want to play into the bastard's hands, but if he could finish up this stupid game and keep the Marines off his turf, then he wanted this over sooner rather than later.

He dodged forward, looking for an opening—easy, the guy wasn't even bothering to cover his stomach—and sank one fist into the Marine's stomach.

Then everything went white. Smoker could hear Captain Benji coughing, probably winded, but whatever the old man was feeling, it couldn't be worse than the agony searing Smoker's chest. He didn't remember falling to his knees, but when he opened his eyes again, he was looking up through involuntary tears at a smiling, weathered face and a fist that… Kind of…

…_gleamed_… Brass knuckles. _Damn _it. Were Marines _allowed _to use those? His ribs hurt like hell—there had to be a crack in at least one of 'em. The captain was fast, and not afraid to take a hit either, with a fist like a hammer.

Smoker quickly wiped his watering eyes, ground his teeth so hard that he bit straight through his cigarette, and stood up. Another punch like that would probably leave him with a punctured lung, but he wasn't used to backing down from fights and he'd carried on with worse than this. The old bastard wouldn't get a second opportunity.

"Tell you what," said Benji suddenly. "You visited to tell us to stay off the streets? Perfect timing. Tomorrow there's a whole fleet of rabble due to arrive here. We Marines'll take a little…day off. We'll see how you handle 'em on your own. Alright?"

"What?" Smoker rasped, and felt his face harden into a pained grimace as his ribs twinged at the exhaled word.

"Yeah, I think that sounds good," said Benji conversationally. "Get out of my base, boy. You'll want to be healthy tomorrow if you're gonna stand a chance… Of course, that's assuming you can still run with that cracked rib."

* * *

The next day, Smoker was on the streets as usual.

(Never mind that he couldn't manage more than a trot at best without the pain in his chest intensifying to the point where his head rang and his knees went weak… If he wanted speed, he could stream along as a cloud of smoke. Never mind.)

Damn that old bastard…

A day off… _We'll take a day off_.

The sheer _arrogance_…

Smoker had been running these streets for _years _now, years on end, and just because Marine Headquarters had finally noticed that all their people in Loguetown were totally incompetent had _nothing _to do with him!

A street away, someone screamed.

Ah, now _this _he could handle. Smoker took a run-up and a jump before letting his body disintegrate into a stream of white smoke. Time to deal out some _real _justice.

When he resolidified thirty seconds later in the chaos of Mono Street, his fists were twitching with the reckless desire to send a criminal into next week and damn the consequences. But there was no criminal so far he could see, and in the tumult of frightened voices his keen ears caught words no law enforcer ever wants to hear—

_Is she dead? Is she—Did he—All that blood—What's—Did you see—_

-All overlapping, and they needed to _get out of his way_! One stamp of his foot and a shockwave of rushing, acrid clouds swept outwards from him in ripples, blowing everyone in his general vicinity back by about twenty feet. Ignoring the pileup and the continued panic, Smoker strode forward with his eyes fixed on the crimson splattered across the white stone cobbles.

_His streets._

He'd seen worse before.

(That's what he told himself.)

This was nothing.

(But it was a lie.)

"Who did this?" He tried to sound authoritative and powerful, but no one was listening and all the while the culprit was getting farther and farther away. Hell, he could have set sail by now—they were near the docks. Or there could be another bright red stain waiting for Smoker a street away—_my streets, MINE!_

"WHO DID THIS?" he roared, but even as people turned to answer him, he knew that no definitive answer would be forthcoming. Already fingers were pointing in opposite directions and the answers were spilling over each other like waves on the shore and half of the people weren't even trying to answer his question, just pouring out their trauma on him. Smoker prided himself on being able to listen to multiple conversations at once, but this was just…

_He just—Devil Fruit, I'd swear—North—West—Said Step-Step Fruit but I thought he was just joking—too fast!—That way, that way! Smoker—_

He ran. He ran in the direction most of the people were pointing, and somewhere in the back of his head a voice kept repeating, _Imagine the information network you could have with the Marines._

Damn it. Just—

His lungs burned, but he wasn't tired and smoke hadn't affected him since he'd eaten the Plume-Plume Fruit, so what…

Oh, the broken ribs. _Damn_. He lifted off, justifying it with a need for speed while his torso throbbed and every breath was hell. There was no way he could let this one get away, not after yesterday and _not _after eight years of vigilante activity, successfully keeping the streets clean while the Marines did nothing. It would be unacceptable.

Everything Smoker knew about pirates said that the man was heading for the docks to board a ship and leave, and he didn't know how much of a lead the murderer had.

(Devil Fruit powers—Step-Step Fruit. Too fast.)

Smoker accelerated, and almost immediately a fresh surge of pain in his chest made him light-headed; the careful breathing and the discipline he needed to make his smoke-body move forward faltered. Why did all this have to happen _now_? Just when he needed to prove himself, just when someone had been murdered on his turf for the first time in eight years…

Broken ribs, a Devil Fruit user, and a smarmy old bastard who thought—

Fury made him pick up speed again, rushing through the streets at a dangerously swift pace, dodging through crowds and occasionally knocking a Loguetown citizen off-balance. Ordinarily, he would have flown well above the crowds, but on this occasion he didn't want to fall any further than necessary if he lost all control.

He barely saw the flicker of movement through the haze of agony distorting his vision, and he barely got his hands up in time to block the blow aimed straight for the side of his head.

-everything blurred—

-No, he shouldn't have had to block at all…he had good reflexes to thank for the fact that he wasn't out cold right now, but usually punches and kicks just went_ through _him. So why…?

The murderer's hands were still covered in blood. Or, more accurately, his gloves were. Smoker gave himself a full second to take in the man's appearance (long, blond hair, horse-like face, oversized boots and gloves studded with some kind of stone) before charging.

His fist connected with the criminal's face, sending a few teeth flying (good!) and then the other man's knuckles smashed into Smoker's cheekbone (_bad_).

"Like that? Like that, Smokey?" The blonde man danced like a boxer, jabbing and grinning like a maniac. "Never seen seastone before?"

_A perfectly preserved memory: the Devil Fruit Encyclopedia and a footnote somewhere near the beginning on the effects of—_

Oh.

"Step-Step…"

Oh, _damn _it.

"—Flicker!"

And ten punches his him at once, which Smoker would have been fine with (he'd seen worse, and it was the truth this time), except blondie landed a lucky punch to his broken rib.

Smoker saw white, and then nothing.

When he woke up, no one had moved him. It was twilight, edging towards real darkness, and the street was empty. No sounds in the night air, nothing to concern him…apparently, the residents of Loguetown were feeling more subdued than usual tonight.

Smoker stood up and he couldn't tell whether his pride or his bruised ribs were in more pain at that moment. He pulled the stub of a cigar from his pocket—good for one more smoke—and clenched it between his teeth, willing it into ignition with brief assistance from his Plume-Plume powers.

The smoke tasted bitter. Smoker let his jaw hang loose and the stub fell to the street, where it lay for a moment before he smashed his heel into it, turning his foot over and over again with slow, furious deliberation.

He didn't know how long he stood like that before someone started talking behind him.

"Do you get it now?"

It was the old bastard. Smoker didn't look at him, didn't say anything, didn't even breathe. Only his right foot moved, the heel grinding back and forth on the cobblestones, a smear of tobacco slowly staining the stone beneath his boot.

"You're just one kid. Sometimes you'll get unlucky and life'll bust your head. Sometimes they'll get away," said Captain Benji conversationally, lighting a cigarette of his own. "It's all about resources and how you use them. That's what I told you, and that's what I'll keep telling you until you either get it through your thick skull or I kick your ass. Because someone died today, and you know what? It was my fault for leaving it to you."

Smoker still didn't look at him. Twilight deepened around them, the sky overhead losing its evening glow in favor of a cold Loguetown night.

There was nothing to say.

No, there were too many things to say, but Smoker knew how each and every accusation would be answered, how every argument would be deflected like so much ocean spray against the prow of a ship. So he said nothing, just let the thoughts whirl inside his head, shred his skull, burn in his throat. He lit up again, hoping (somewhere deep inside himself) to soften the pain. His ribs throbbed with every breath.

"If you make it through the Academy, you'll rise fast, boy. You're tough. They'll give you your own men, let you dominate this little corner of the world if you answer their questions right. Thing is, you'll be serving in the name of Justice; that's what we stand for, get it?"

And Smoker remembered the Marines who did nothing, _nothing_, before he took the streets for himself and made them safe again. He wouldn't call that—no one in their _right mind _would call that justice.

"It's just a word," he said, deadpan, exhaling a cloud of silver smoke along with his steaming breath in the chill air.

"Depends on what you make of it," said the bastard, and there was a faint whistle as he puckered his lips for a few smoke rings. They washed over Smoker's sullen, unchanging face, and he'd tell you later (if he ever mentioned this at all) that it was the damn smoke from that bastard's cheap, bad cigarette that made his eyes water.

"They'll work you hard, but you've worked harder. Just learn to take orders when you have to and you might make it out alive," said Benji, and clapped Smoker on the back like an annoying uncle who had no concept of personal space. "It's like some moron said once-they can take you off the streets, but they can't take the streets out of you."

And with that, he left.

The next day, Smoker cut off the ponytail and went to sign up.

* * *

**Recently I've been having a lot of trouble keeping commitments-e.g. updating stories on a regular basis. Subtlety has suffered a lot, and so, of course, has this series of oneshots. Come to it, I haven't posted anything at all in quite a while. So I have to apologize to the people who enjoy my stories (odd as the idea still is to me). Still, there are plenty of characters apart from Smoker who deserve some platonic love, cliches that need to be re-written, and plot bunnies infesting my head! I'm not dead yet! **

**But this _is _the last oneshot for The Chase, as I say.**

**And with that in mind, let's move on to review replies!**

**SniperKingSogeking0341: It's been so long since I posted a chapter here that we actually know what Smoker's doing now-who knew it would take me so long? XD Thanks!**

**penniless1: Thanks again! I love thoughtful reviews like this so much... 3 **

**Phalanx: Whoa, I wrote something profound? D8 _Unexpected_. But I'm glad you think so. XD  
**

**J-Kid: I love Pratchett's books! My Smoker is actually kind of semi a little bit based on Vimes, so I guess the influence shows...? Ah, well. Spread the love, man/lady! The world could use more Discworld fans! (And thank you-I too tired long ago of Ace always jumping into the Smoker fanfiction I read... THEY WERE IN THE SAME PLACE FOR FIVE MINUTES, PEOPLE.)  
**

**lilyoftheval5: It makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside when people cite specific quotes! Your review is much appreciated. :D  
**

**...You guys will probably have to go back and check to remember what you said. I'm sorry.  
**


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